


Astral Low

by orphan_account



Category: Hotline Miami, Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly a stream of consciousness detailed tell-not-show of the inner workings of Richard's mind. Poor guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Astral Low

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon is that Jacket's name is Richard Ortega.

None of this was making sense. The pizza store he always came to had his friend, always offering things for free, always claiming it was on the house. Instead of his long haired, bearded friend, though, standing at the counter was a shorter man, bald, with a stern look on his face. Richard approached, glancing at the menu. He never ordered. The man behind the bar would always whip something up for him to pick up, waiting, knowing that he'd arrive eventually.

He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and cleared his throat again. Richard rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, always conveying himself through motions and gestures. Before he could clear his throat a third time, trying to find words, the bald man spoke, voice much softer than his expression.

"You should probably leave. We're closing up soon." 

Richard blinked four times, a rapid, fluttering motion, and nodded his head wordlessly. Closing up soon. He wondered if his old friend's words were a cryptic prediction- closing up shop forever. It caused cold sweat to form on his back beneath his t-shirt, warmed by his ever-present varsity jacket. Before anything else could be said, he turned on his heel, the sole of his sneaker squeaking against the linoleum in protest as he went to his car, and drove himself home. His vision was split and his head was pounding, a violent, throbbing that followed his pulse and ripped at his skull like rabid dogs.

He ran three lights and two stop signs.

By the time he pulled into the carport of his apartment, he was absolutely drenched in sweat, it blurred his vision and made his clothes cling to him with the desperation of a drowning man. He reeked of body odor, and the upholstery of his seat had stains hilariously in the shape of his asscheeks. Richard couldn't laugh though, as he practically fell out of his DeLorean, barely staying upright and holding onto the roof of his car for dear life. He was panting like he'd just run a marathon, and felt just as exhausted. Richard hung there for a few fleeting moments, trying to regain some form of sense, or at least balance, before he forced himself to steady, and let go of the roof. He blinked a few times, clearing his fractured vision briefly. It helped, but not enough, so he simply tried to crawl up the stairs to the sanctuary of his home, while static shrieked in his ears and crawled across his eyes.

Things were only getting stranger.

When he woke up the next morning -and not remembering falling asleep-, there was a large black man in his kitchen, hunched over the sink, covering the floor with blood and chunks of gore. Richard felt nauseous, his head was swimming, a neverending headache that just seemed to get worse. The static was starting to crawl back into his ears and edge its way into his vision, shrieking and fracturing. He let out a low groan, ignoring the man at the sink and moving towards the living room, seeking out the one thing that made sense; his answering machine. What was more bizarre was his girlfriend, sitting on the couch, eating toast and watching TV, as if there wasn't a man broken and bleeding two rooms away. He didn't acknowledge her, simply picking up the phone and listening with furrowed brow. The voices were different every time, but they were normal. This one was off, as if the message was a recording of a recording, distorted and fuzzy. After the directions ended, there was a full minute of clicking, like the person was desperately trying to hang up, but it just wouldn't accept.

Richard slowly nodded his head, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he set the phone down, and made his way down the stairs to his car. The day before, he felt sluggish and weighed down, but today it was too fast, and too cold. Richard was shivering and he wasn't sure when he started crying but they weren't tears of emotion, just tears of... letting liquid out through his eyes. He wondered if the amount of secretion was healthy, he didn't remember drinking any water lately, and before he started his car he slumped against the wheel, breathing heavily with pitched inhales and exhales.

He was not going to be OK.


End file.
